


All Those Me's (And Only One You)

by TheConsultingStepladder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheConsultingStepladder/pseuds/TheConsultingStepladder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both know, really.<br/>It's just that, one refuses to say it, while the other won't even acknowledge it.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kiss Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP of mine, so the rating, tags etc are liable to change. Wanted to write a few short but sweet moments between my favourite Baker Street Boys and it turned into this... Oh well.

The problem was not that Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson. 

This was a fact that had established itself early on in their relationship. 

It hadn’t been a sudden revelation, or even remotely a surprise when he finally came to terms with it.  
There was no shocked realisation, no brief moment of clarity.

Rather it had simply planted itself into his subconscious and slowly grew until its roots and blossoms tickled the corners of his mind and he had come to admit to himself, it had been there all along.

However, it has also never been an issue. Why should it be?

He and John were close friends, living together, working together. Sherlock knew he would always have John in his life so there was no logical reason to bring it up. As long as John remained, he could continue to silently admire him.

The problem in fact, was when Sherlock Holmes became _attracted_ to John Watson.

Unlike the constant, underlying feelings that connected him to John, his attraction was something he actively noticed and tried, most of the time failingly, to ignore.  
He had always disapproved of John’s dates, mainly because he could see right through them for what they were, young ladies attracted by a charming, dependable doctor.  
Wouldn’t that be a prize to take home? 

They didn’t understand John, not the way he did. 

They didn’t know about the fire that lay underneath his sweet, calm demeanour, the ache for excitement, the fascination with the macabre and the unwavering loyalty and determination to aid his colleagues.  
Sarah was the only one who had even come close to being a better match for John in his eyes, but even she quailed and pulled away from him in the end.

Now it was different; it wasn’t just the tediously boring things he deduced about John’s choice of partner that bothered him.  
It was the proximity. The closeness, physically and emotionally that they shared.

He had come to pick John up for a case, who had spent the night at his current girlfriend’s flat.  
Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the road, giving John space to say his goodbyes. He immediately regretted having such a clear view of the front door.

Watching John kiss her, his eyes raked over her hand on his shoulder, his hands on her hips and back up to his mouth.  
Sherlock’s teeth pulled at his lips in frustration. Absent-mindedly he rolled his tongue over them, then immediately wiped a hand across his face to stop it. 

“Ridiculous.”

He stormed away, he told himself, out of anger not restraint. 

“Absurd. Of all people, I don’t need John Watson to kiss me.”


	2. Like Me

“In many ways you are so like me and yet in others not at all.”

John put down his paper and looked inquiringly at his friend who was sitting on the very edge of his armchair.  
“Are you seriously comparing us? Because I can tell you right now that isn’t going to end well.”

“Animosity?” he replied, confused.

John smirked, ‘No, but I can’t help thinking this conversation will lead to you pointing out that you’re such a genius and I’m a complete idiot. And if I didn’t like you so much I’d probably be tempted to come over there and thump you.”

“I’m stating facts John, not insulting you.” His expression was one of pure sincerity.

“Fine, go on then..”

Sherlock grinned and jumped up in his seat, crouching in his armchair.

“Through many of our cases I have observed that you and I have quite similar emotional reactions.”

“So you’re admitting you have emotions?’

He rolled his eyes, almost audibly tutting, “I’ve never denied the existence of my emotions John, I’ve just never let them affect my work.’

John chuckled a little, ‘I wouldn’t say never...’

‘May I continue?” Sherlock sniped impatiently.

“You may.”

“For instance, we both thrive on the chase, both physical and mental. Both of us suffer greatly from boredom, although mine is obviously more pronounced than yours.’

John tried to hide his knowing grin.

“We marvel at the complexities of certain cases and though it would probably be deemed inappropriate, we both find a certain satisfaction in our criminals being ones of great intellect or occasionally, great stupidity. However…”

“And here we go..” John laid his paper down on his lap expectantly.

Sherlock ignored him,  
“…in deciphering the evidence and following it through towards its conclusion, there is a huge difference. Of course I’m aware that my intellect is greater than most men but you John, _you_ seem to often not only miss the point of certain exercises I put out for you (which I do with the sole purpose of proving you are not completely useless), but you consistently come to ridiculous and sometimes completely barmy conclusions. For example, the case with the missing…”

Sherlock was interrupted by the cushion that came flying from the other chair, hitting him squarely in the face.

“I won’t take responsibility for my actions if you carry on…” 

He threw the cushion to one side and continued as if John hadn’t said a word,  
“But don’t you think it’s interesting? Two men who are so different in both personality and history can be so similar in their wants and needs one minute and yet so completely opposing the next. Sometimes the minutiae of everyday life holds some interesting little problems, don’t you think. ”

“Not when I start to feel insulted by them, no.”

“No, no of course not, I bet today’s crossword is much more worthy of your time…”

“Sherlock…”, it was a warning rather than an exclamation.

He looked up at his friend with a mockingly hurt expression.  
“I thought you’d find it fascinating. Besides, you said you like me. I assumed that was all inclusive.” he pouted.

“It is and I do, but I’d also like to see you knocked down a peg or two sometimes.”

Sherlock grinned, “I wouldn’t put it past you to take care of that yourself.”

John could feel that condescending smirk from across the room, it was followed by an amused huff.

“Three down is ‘Residual’ by the way.”

He tried to bite back a smile, “You arrogant git.”

They shared a wry glance at each other and continued their morning in silence.


	3. Tease Me

Being his flatmate and therefore constantly in close quarters meant dismissing these feelings, for Sherlock, was even more difficult.  
He picked up cases more readily during this time, finding even the dullest problem to be a welcome distraction from John Watson. 

John first thing in the morning, making tea in his dressing gown.  
John putting on a suit and straightening his tie before a date.  
John straight out of the shower, nipping through to fetch his trousers from the dryer.  
John staring for him a little too long over the kitchen table.

 

Sherlock had tried picking fights, 

“You’re always up too early.”  
“Are you really wearing that?”  
“Put some clothes on, Mrs Hudson will have a fit if she pops in.”  
“Stop looking at me, it’s distracting.”, but John simply quipped back and ignored him.

They were both sitting on the couch one evening, having spent the entire afternoon chasing after a group of teenage drug traffickers. John was snoozing, his arms crossed over his chest, whilst Sherlock fiddled around with the last of the paperwork from Lestrade.

Finally filling out the last document, he threw the papers unceremoniously on the coffee table and fell back into the couch. John snorted sleepily at the impact but didn’t wake up.  
Sherlock hummed, amused and looked round at his flat-mate. He was completely enamoured by how unguarded his friend looked asleep, so relaxed and lovely. He frowned at the thought, realising just how uncomfortable this situation was. 

John was so trusting of Sherlock and yet he was lying to him, kept lying to him. But it was for their own good surely?

As he contemplated his dilemma, John moved minutely in his sleep, causing a tuft of his fringe to fall over his left eye.  
Besides noticing John was desperately in need of a haircut, Sherlock smirked as John’s face kept twitching at the sudden irritation.  
When he couldn’t stand to watch him any longer, he instinctively reached a hand over and pushed it gently out of the way.

John’s hair was soft under his fingers and his knuckles brushed his hot forehead. A shiver ran down his arm at the contact.

He instantly felt his pulse elevating rapidly, his mind fogging over and his chest swelling up with the emotions he’d been keeping so carefully locked away.  
He took longer than was necessary to finally pull his hand away and as he did, his throat tightened at the realisation that a pair of dark, blue eyes were staring up at him quizzically.

Sherlock knew his face must be telling, he could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and knew his eyes would be sickeningly glazed over. He turned away from John in an instant.

He sat up, his mouth open ready to speak but Sherlock was up on his feet and walking towards his bedroom, not daring to glance back. He mumbled a goodnight and disappeared behind the door.

John clamped his mouth shut and looked down at his hands, clearing his throat awkwardly at no-one in particular.

Sherlock left early the next morning. He and Mycroft had arranged this meeting weeks in advance and he couldn’t find a decent enough excuse to throw his brother’s way to avoid it. Instead he braced himself, knowing that Mycroft would guess instantly that something had occurred.

After discussing the case thoroughly, Mycroft glanced knowingly at his little brother over the rim of his teacup.

“It’s getting harder to pretend now isn’t it?” he spoke condescendingly, but Sherlock could hear the ever so slight concern in his voice.

He didn’t have time to play these games today. Instead he simply tapped the edge of his own cup and stared blankly out of the café window.

“It wouldn’t be, if it didn’t seem like he almost means to tease me.”  
Mycroft smirked, ‘He most likely doesn’t realise. Perhaps he isn’t doing anything, at least consciously. Maybe you’re simply projecting your affections onto him.’  
Sherlock looked daggers into his teacup, “Perhaps. Either way I need to find a way out soon. I honestly don’t think I can keep this up much longer.”

“Or…?” His brother stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth.

“I think I’ll go mad.”

Mycroft smirked, "You don't believe you are already?"  
He set his finished tea cup down, picked up his umbrella and glided out of the café without another word, all the while knowing full well Sherlock was glaring at his back.

The moment the door swung shut, Sherlock dropped his head into his hands.


	4. Call Me

“Edward Miller shot himself Sherlock, we don’t need you anymore.”

Lestrade was more exasperated with the detective than usual this morning.  
He had been completely insufferable, irritable and downright rude to most of his team including himself. 

Greg had only called the man down to the scene because the timing of the victim’s suicide seemed off. Young man, about to be married and making a fair bit of money too. But all the evidence pointed to a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head in the back of a dingy alleyway and he’d had enough of the lanky git for today.

“Wrong detective inspector WRONG! There’s more here than Mr Miller is telling us.”  
“He’s not telling us anything Sherlock, he’s dead.”  
“Perhaps to you but he’s telling me plenty.”  
“Then enlighten me...”

Sherlock remained silent.  
The truth was the dead man wasn’t speaking much at all to him either. He could sense the presence of a deeper story but was failing to find it.

The fact he was feeling tense and off centre today did not help matters.  
He glanced up to the source of his irritation.  
John’s face was set, his eyes stony. Sherlock had been vilest to him today and with reason. 

John was beginning to infuriate him.

It was obvious John had noticed a change in Sherlock’s demeanour after his previous invasion of his personal space, but, being the polite man he was, had brought no further attention to the matter. 

Quite right too, Sherlock thought but that wasn’t what he felt.

In reality he wanted to have it out with John, argue, explain and resolve the tension that had been nagging at him. If the end result was rejection, then it was done and they would move on.  
If it was mutual… Sherlock didn’t know how he’d respond.

And that was what was so utterly frustrating about the entire thing.  
He wanted both. 

He knew the truth would come out eventually, his mood was clearly affected, and though his chest burned at the idea of rejection, he almost prayed for it in place of the uncertainty of the other outcome.

John had refused to stay at home for this case, mainly because he could tell something was wrong with his friend and was goading him into revealing what it was.  
Now Sherlock was playing on his temper, trying to make him leave but John wouldn’t have it. Even as Sherlock purposefully walked past him to speak to another officer about the condition of the body and didn’t consult him at all he simply bit his lip and rocked on his heels.

Sherlock continued to examine the contents of the man’s pockets. No wallet, not out of place, seeing as the man had clearly planned to kill himself, but stranger, no car keys.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock practically bellowed. “Where are the victim's car keys?”  
“We didn’t find any on him” Greg sighed.  
“Then we have a contradiction. You told me Mr Miller was last seen at his home around eleven o' clock last night. He lives about ten miles from this area, he had no money and no car keys. How did he get here?”  
Greg rolled his eyes in irritation, “Walked?”  
“Why would a man about to commit suicide walk ten miles just to find a nice spot to blow his brains out. My god, Lestrade did you have a lobotomy without telling me?”

“Alright that’s it!” Lestrade grabbed at Sherlock’s arm and pulled him backwards through the alley. Sherlock launched himself away from Greg’s grip, elbowing his chest in the process and sending the inspector reeling backwards.

“SHERLOCK!” 

The shout rang down the alleyway and John ran up to the two immediately, pulling his flatmate away and throwing him up against the brick wall.  
“Go home.” He growled, standing firmly in front of the detective, his eyes dangerously dark.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but relented and instead grunted in dissatisfaction and hurried out of the alleyway, nudging John’s shoulder with his own purposefully on his way out.

Once he was out of range, he drew in a deep shaky breath and raked his fingers through the back of his hair. 

This wasn’t going to work, all this tension that he was only partially certain was all his own doing.  
The way John had glared at him back there wasn’t new. But now it was making him angry too. 

What right did he have to be annoyed at Sherlock? Couldn’t John see what he was doing?  
Was he so blind to Sherlock’s mood of late?  
It was John’s fault entirely that he’d accidentally hit Lestrade. The inspector should be dealing with him.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket as he tried to convince himself it wasn’t his problem and eventually found an old cigarette and match hidden in the lining. He struck the match against a brick and once it was lit, pressed it between his lips and inhaled deeply.  
There was no way out of this, John would have questions now and he knew he was going to have to explain it all tonight.

Suddenly Sherlock was broken out of his reverie by the erotic moan of a woman. He hadn’t heard that sound in quite a long time. Holding the cigarette in his mouth he held up his phone and read the text that had elicited the noise.

_How are you doing my dear? Any chance you could help out an old friend? Call me x_

Sherlock replied immediately.


	5. Hit Me

“AAH!” Sherlock reeled backwards from the force.  
He didn’t have time to respond before there was a shout ringing in his ears.

“TWO WEEKS!”

“That’s really no reason to hit me.”

“TWO BLOODY WEEKS, SHERLOCK! WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?”

“I was on a case..”  
“Then why didn’t you ring? Why didn’t you text? You’re so fond of that usually!”

John’s tone was biting and hard, his fist still clenched and aching from punching his friend through the doorway. He was shaking, furious and relieved at the same time.

He’d last seen Sherlock one morning as he was getting ready to go to the surgery. The detective already had his scarf and coat on and was heading out the door. 

“Where are you off to?”  
“Case, Lestrade rang earlier.”  
“Weren’t you still on the Miller case?”  
“This is related. I shouldn’t be long.”

And with that he was gone, leaving John to slowly wile away the hours at work, come home to an empty house (unsurprisingly) and slowly grow more and more concerned for his friend’s wellbeing as the days turned into a week.  
He tried calling, texting, e-mails, anything. He’d contacted Greg, Molly, Mike and even tried Mycroft, with little success.  
Not a single person knew where he’d gone, even Greg admitted, “I did call him about the Miller case that morning, but he sent me a report on the same day so that was finished.”

John had a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach.  
This had all happened before, in front of his eyes no less. 

But this time felt different.

John felt that by letting him watch his demise previously, Sherlock had let him in on the secret.  
“It’s just a magic trick.” He had said over the phone and he realised now those words were meant to be construed in more than one way. 

This time however, Sherlock had simply vanished. 

No clues, no hope. Just got up and left.

_“I shouldn’t be too long.”_

Was that a clue, he thought. Did he mean he was going away again? Did it mean anything?

John gripped the back of his chair until his knuckles turned white. That mad, frustrating bastard made it hard to decipher anything.  
Quickly, he checked the pink phone that Sherlock still kept stashed away in his desk but luckily there had been nothing since their final encounter with Moriarty. That was a good sign at least.

So he waited, throwing himself into his work.  
Calling Greg up for a quick drink.  
Popping in to see how Molly was doing.  
Anything, absolutely anything to distract him from worrying.

And now he had the nerve to just waltz into the flat, exactly as he’d left. Looking a little tired yes, but still very much, Sherlock Holmes.

His fist had flown before he could do anything about it.  
“I couldn’t help it John, I finished the case with Lestrade and got caught up in something deeper. You see there was a blackmailer and…”

"I DON’T CARE WHAT HAPPENED SHERLOCK, WHY DIDN’T YOU LET ME KNOW?”  
Sherlock’s eyebrows quirked in surprise.  
“So I need to tell you where I’m going now? Would you like me to get tagged so you can keep track of me?”

“Don’t be so bloody awkward you know what I mean!”

“No John really, I don’t see the problem. I’ve been away for long hours before…”

“I’m not going to say it again. Two weeks, Sherlock. Maybe two days, fine yes, but you expect me not to worry about you after a fortnight of hearing nothing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous John, I’ve been away for far longe…”  
John’s face tensed and he bit down on his lip. Sherlock stopped immediately, wishing desperately he could backtrack.

“No John, I’m sorry that’s not what I…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Really, no, I didn’t know you’d be so…”

" **I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.** " 

John stormed upstairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him. He could feel the angry tears threateningly close and didn’t want to give Sherlock the satisfaction.

There was a banging on his door as soon as he shut it. 

“JOHN, stop it. Come out and talk to me.”

Sherlock was kicking himself, he knew how stupid he’d been. He hadn’t wanted John to know where he was or who he was with. At the same time he hadn’t know it would take so long, wasn’t fully aware of how much his past disappearance still wounded his friend.

He knew why he hadn’t seen it. He’d tried not to.

Because of the way he felt about John. 

John’s worry for him was the only indication Sherlock had that perhaps, there could ever be more between them. Though he wanted that to be true, he refused to let himself fall for any false hope.

He spoke again, a little softer. “John, please open the door.”

His request was answered but not with the reply was hoping for.  
John stood in his bedroom doorway with his coat on, a small case under his arm.

“I’m going.”  
“W..”  
“I can’t deal with this anymore. I can’t deal with you.”

“John you’re not serious.”

“I AM.” He snapped back. “I am tired of hanging around like your little pet, worrying and wondering if I’m going to turn on the news and see you dead for real this time. And the worst part is you don’t even CARE. You don’t care how I feel about it, or anyone else. You just glide back in like you’ll be welcomed with open arms. Well I’ve had enough. Goodbye Sherlock Holmes.”

With that he launched himself past Sherlock and out the open door to the flat. 

Sherlock didn’t bother to chase after him. Instead he stared at the half empty bedroom, fiddling with the doorframe and wondering when things had gotten so terribly complicated.


	6. Love Me

_Good evening gorgeous x_

John’s phone vibrated on the hotel night stand. He grabbed at it, still half asleep and stared at the message through bleary eyes. Unknown number, probably a mistake. 

The second he placed it on the night stand it buzzed again.

_How’s things Dr Watson? x_

**Who is this? – John**

_Did you have a row? He’s really quite sensitive isn’t he?_

**It’s not funny, who IS this? – John**

His phone rang almost immediately afterwards and was answered by a smooth female voice. He nearly dropped the phone in shock.  
“Ms Adler…”  
“John sweetie please, surely it’s Irene by now?’

He swallowed, ‘How are you even…’

‘Oh you’ve got the lovely Sherlock to thank for that. Don’t tell him I told you though.’ she purred.

John tried to get his head around how but in the end gave up and added it to the list of _impossible-things-Sherlock-had-done_. Instead he focused on, what he thought, was an easier question.  
‘Why are you calling me?’

‘You two had a fight didn’t you?’  
‘Is it any of your business?’  
‘Oh, that’s a yes then.’

‘If you didn’t know then why did you…” 

‘He texted me, it sounded… off. I knew it would be something to do with you Dear John.’ she spoke in a slightly suggestive tone.

‘Wait, what is that supposed to mean?’  
‘Oh dear, you’ve still not figured it out have you?’

John was silent on the other end, he got the feeling he wouldn’t like the next part of the conversation.

‘He was with me. That’s why he didn’t call you. I had a problem with a young man trying to blackmail me. He sorted it out of course.’  
‘That still doesn’t make any sense.’  
‘Would you tell him if you suddenly decided to pop off and spend a few weeks with another lady?’  
‘Well, I don’t have a… but yes, why wouldn’t I? I’d let him know where I was going at least.’

The line was quiet for a few seconds.

“I see.” Irene replied thoughtfully, ‘It makes even more sense now don’t you think.’

“How?”

“You don’t see him the same way he does you. Who in their right mind would try to push you even further away by telling you they’d spent two weeks with a dominatrix?”  
“I don’t understand what you’re saying?”

Irene laughed shortly, ‘Oh my Dr Watson, aren’t we repressed? Perhaps you could use my services, you need loosening up a little.’

John’s face reddened and he rubbed a hand across his tired eyes.

“He’s in love with you. Hasn’t it been obvious? It was to me, unfortunately. I just assumed… it was mutual.” a slight sadness rang in her words.

His heart had stopped dead in his chest, why was she telling him all this? That can’t be true? Sherlock kept his feelings hidden well and yet Irene had managed to make a mess of him more than once before. Was it possible he’d told her all this? But then, if he hadn’t why was she lying to him? How did this benefit her?

Nervously, he fiddled with the sheets,  
“You don’t have to say that Irene. I will go back to Baker Street. We just had a fight that’s all. We both over reacted I think. I’ll be fine by morning.”

“Are you going to ask him if he loves you?”

John sighed deeply, “You don’t have to make things up.”

“I’m not very good at playing pretend Doctor, hard to believe isn’t it? I only ever use the emotions and techniques I already understand to enhance my work. I don’t have to falsify anything, I’ve honestly never come across a couple as frustratingly obvious as you two.”

“I told you last time, we’re not a couple.”

She hummed, “No, perhaps you’re not. Not yet anyhow.”

John replied in a tight voice. “Sherlock Holmes does **not** love me. Why would he?”

“Perhaps, you fascinate him John? You’re a very interesting man. I know he hasn’t said anything yet. Perhaps he’s waiting for you to take control? It is nice to let someone else take the reins sometimes.”

John had fallen silent again, unsure how much more he could listen to. “I’m going back there tomorrow, but that’s just so you know. Don’t tell him that. We’ll sort it out.”

“The argument, or the relationship?”

“Argument of course, there’s nothing to sort in our… Everything’s fine.”

“You are in love with him John Hamish Watson.”  
“Goodnight Ms Adler.”  
“….”

There was a slightly muffled sigh at the other end, “Goodnight John.”


	7. This is Me

He would’ve appreciated the soothing sound of the rain on the window at this moment in time. Unfortunately, the sky was clear and there wasn’t a sound inside or out of the now emptier flat, except for his own slow breathing.

Sherlock had spent the evening fitfully.

Switching quickly between composing, rifling through old case files, catching up on his latest experiments and drinking copious amounts of tea before he finally admitted defeat and settled in John’s armchair, staring at the window, Sudoku cube in hand.  
In truth he was paying no attention to the puzzle at all, just fiddling with it absent mindedly.  
He’d replayed their argument in his mind a hundred times, trying to determine what would be the best course of action from here on. 

He knew John would come back. That wasn’t a worry.  
What he could not predict is what conclusion John would come to after witnessing Sherlock’s previous actions and their inevitable altercation. After the way he had been so ghastly to him before he departed.  
John would know something was wrong. Of course he would.

A long drawn out breath that sounded suspiciously like a frustrated sigh escaped from his lungs and he chuckled in spite of himself, so much so did he sound like a forlorn lover.  
He smiled at the worn thread on the arm chair brushing a thumb over the area where John’s elbow often lay.

How had this happened, he wondered. How had one singular person become such a driving force in his life where before there was none?

Thinking of that first night together, he immediately dismissed the thought. It had not been there from the beginning, as romantic a notion as it seemed.  
In fact it seemed pointless to dwell on when it had begun, the fact was it was there.  
Instead Sherlock closed his eyes, leant his chin on his hands and sifted through all the memories for that one forgotten gem. 

The one he kept locked away tight in a deep part of himself and only unearthed in moments of solitude because of all the strange and conflicting emotions it made him feel.

The one moment he thought, perhaps just for a second, that John Watson might love him too.

It begins sadly as always, but he never skips forward. Every moment of this memory is cherished as evidence. 

It begins when he returned.

The mixture of shock, anger and relief on John’s face was a sight he would not soon forget. Neither was the startling vision of various utensils, tools and even cleaning products being thrown at him. Anything John could get his hands on until finally he grabbed Sherlock by the wrists and slammed him against the wall. Sherlock had closed his eyes awaiting a sharp blow, most likely to the face. 

He waited a few moments.  
And then the fingers around his wrists trembled. 

John’s eyes were wet but he was not crying, his mouth was slack and his hands, arms and shoulders shook.  
Sherlock, eyes now open, lifted his hands to John’s arms, steadying him.  
John shook his head and moved away from the contact, but he was not angry. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he stared at the floor between them. Sherlock’s hands still curled around his arms but exerted no pressure. He waited hesitantly for John to take the next step, shout, laugh, an offer of dinner, anything because he knew he could not bring himself to find the words just yet.

But John didn’t laugh, or swear.  
He looked up at Sherlock’s face in awe, the smile still staining his features with a not-so-subtle joy.

“I _cannot_ believe you.”  
“Doesn’t matter what you believe, I am back and _this is me._ ” he replied flatly and John smiled softly.

And it was then he saw it.  
The way John looked at him, so much showing but just as much hidden. The tension behind his eyes and the muted smile. His greying hair and tired face now glowing with the cheer Sherlock remembered fondly. The ever so slight motion forwards that pressed John’s forearms fully into Sherlock’s palms.

All these actions, conscious or not screamed out to him. That was the very first time he had wanted to kiss John Watson. 

It seemed so alien an action to desire, considering his attraction had not yet flourished. But he loved John, he knew that. And he wanted nothing more than to kiss away the tired bags under his eyes, the worry lines and the tense corners of his mouth if only it would make him smile wider, let him see that old fire back inside.

As always however, he knew better. This was not a situation to be taken advantage of, especially since their current relationship would most likely need some work after this incident. Sherlock would not jeopardise his friendship for the sake of a tender action.

He was broken suddenly out of his trance by the slamming of a door. As he opened his eyes he was met with sunlight streaming through the window. He had slept, though he only just realised.

Hearing the slow footsteps on the stairs, he stretched languidly, his back was taut from being held in such an uncomfortable position and made unceremonious cracking noises.

As the second occupant of 221B made his way into the flat, overnight bag in hand, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a long blue dressing gown skimming around the door to Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Sherl-“ he managed to say before he was cut off by the click of the bedroom door.

Sherlock leant back against the door just for a moment, listening to John slide the bag off his shoulder and his coat back on the rack. He let go a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. John was home. And there was no need for any more at present.


	8. Help Me

Emma’s laugh was infectious. John couldn’t stop smiling every time she giggled. And she had been doing that a lot tonight. 

He knew he was hitting it off. Despite how furiously he tried not to feel over confident, he had a pretty good feeling they’d be going home together tonight, perhaps for a drink, perhaps for something more.

They’d chosen a gorgeous little Italian hidden away from the main streets. The atmosphere was warm and buzzing, it felt far away from the noise of London.

Emma was sipping on a glass of wine and staring pleasantly out the window at the just blooming stars. John glanced at her sideways and began taking in her features. The soft line of her neck, her thick red hair curled against one bare shoulder where her top had slipped down. Her eyes were impossibly blue and her lips quirked in an odd but adorable fashion.

She made a passing comment about the waiter resembling a famous actor. He made a joke, she laughed again nearly spilling her wine.

In a second Emma’s hand was on his knee. Deep warmth spread through him and he couldn’t contain his smile.   
He passed his hand over hers and leaned forward. Her eyes sparkled and she moved towards him. 

Barely a breath away she suddenly jumped back. John’s eyes flickered open, confused.

She gestured at his knee, her hand still placed there.

‘Did your phone just go off?’

He stopped for a second, then felt the vibration in his pocket and rolled his eyes.   
He’d put it on silent for this very reason, though he could’ve just told Sherlock to his face that he was on a date, John knew it would be easier to act now and apologise later.

Reluctantly he checked the message, no, six messages. He’d been ignoring them all night.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation he scrolled through them.

**9:30pm** Baker Street, as soon as possible. - SH

**9:50pm** Important case, nearly solved it but may need you to help me on the final stretch. – SH

**10:10pm** Could take all night, won’t take half as long if we co-ordinate. – SH

**10:20pm** You are receiving my messages, correct?

**10:24pm** Are you still in the flat? When did you leave? - SH

**10:26pm** Where are you? – SH

John sighed defeated.   
He smiled warmly at Emma. “I’m sorry, can you give me two minutes, my flatmate’s being a pain.”

She smirked, “Of course, I understand. Hurry back.” She winked playfully at him and he laughed gently.

Standing up, he made his way out of the restaurant and settled down on one of the empty chairs outside.   
Sherlock’s mobile rang three times before he answered.


	9. Fuck Me

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh get a grip, you know who this is.”

“Ah John, perfect. Where are you? I’ve been texting for the last hour.”

“Yes, I noticed. I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard,   
“Lestrade sent me a kidnapping case this morning, I know who the kidnapper is, Lestrade and the rest are on their way to get him, but it turns out it’s more complicated than I first thought. He’s also a..”

“I’m on a date Sherlock. Can’t this wait?”

A moment of silence passed.

“You didn’t tell me you were going out.”

“You wouldn’t have noticed.”

“I need your help John.”

“With what? You just said yourself they’ve got him.”

“Yes, but as I was trying to tell you this man is also a smuggler. He’s been receiving coded messages from his clients and though I know the basic premise of the code, it’s going to take me more than a night to go through all this man’s paperwork to find the right document to fully decode the messages.”

“So you want me to spend my evening helping you look through a load of old papers?”

“We’ve done it before John, why are you resisting now?”

“ I. Am. On. A. Date!”

“You were on a date last time too.”

“YES and you’ll remember how THAT one ended too I hope.”

John could almost hear the long-suffering, pained expression Sherlock wore as he spoke,  
“I’m not asking you to risk your life tonight, I simply need to decipher this code before Lestrade brings this man in tomorrow morning.”

John groaned and the line was silent again. He knew he could easily hang up, go back into the restaurant with Emma and continue his night guilt free. No-one’s life was in danger and no one was getting hurt. But still he asked.

“Why is it so important that it’s deciphered tonight?”

More silence.

“Sherlock!?”

“You know I like to wrap up quickly John, I have a few on-going cases at the moment and I’d like to get back to them.”

“What, you mean the missing bike and that teacher’s stolen purse?”

“….”  
“ Don’t lie to me, why is it so impor…”

“He bet me.”

John was momentarily startled by the sudden response.  
“Who bet you?”

“After the suicide case, I had another, the one I told Lestrade would take me a day to solve. I… overran… by a few hours. Lestrade bet me I couldn’t solve this case in that time frame either.”

John chuckled, so this was it.   
He sounded genuinely distressed, Sherlock could really be so childish.

“Well me helping would be cheating wouldn’t it?”

“Not at all, I know exactly what I need and what I’m looking for. The case is solved, it’s just a matter of finding the right piece of paper.”

John couldn’t stifle the laugh that escaped.  
“How did you even solve the Edward Miller case? You weren’t here.”

There was a short silence and what John thought was a grunt on the end of the line before the reply came.

“I solved it whilst… when I was away.”

“I see.”

John leant forward on the chair feeling the conversation was about to take on a sour tone.  
Instead Sherlock switched straight into a rapid explanation.

“It seems the case and my other client’s were linked. Edward Miller had been a… customer of hers in the past. She was being harassed by a blackmailer who threatened to link his death to her unless she kept him in pay. There was evidence she had been there to retrieve some valuable items from him. The blackmailer contacted her through a scrambled phone line, however I managed to deduce his whereabouts from the background noise on his phone calls. Of course I realised then that it was Edward’s own brother.”

“His brother?” John exclaimed.

Sherlock continued as though he hadn’t heard him. 

“Edward Miller was a very paranoid man and his brother had used that against him. He visited Edward the night of his suicide and finally, after what I deduce was months of grooming, convinced him to finally end his life. I believe Edward’s brother convinced him he was dying, a sickly disposition runs in their family. It was out of jealousy for his wife and his success. His brother was twice divorced and never earned more than a minimum wage packet. He planned to extract a sum of money from my client, so he may live comfortably and then attempt to seduce his wife, therefore taking Edward’s old life from him.”  
“Then why move the body?”

“When Edward’s wife came home late that night the brother was still there but her husband was not. He claimed he’d last seen Edward around 10’o clock. He knew the suspicion would be on him first and foremost as he made no bones about disliking his brother. So when Edward finally did the deed, he moved the body in his own car, wrapped in a heated blanket of some sort, so the time of death would be erroneous and came back to the house. The death could in no way be attributed to him, no matter how suspicious it seemed as his brother was clearly, in the Yard’s eyes miles away when he shot himself.”

“ _Brilliant._ ” John gasped, letting go of an indrawn breath.

The line remained silent for over a minute or so, Sherlock breathing steadily and John fiddling with the loose straw on the wicker chair.  
He didn’t realise he was still smiling until he caught his reflection in the restaurant window.

“So you want me, to leave this gorgeous lady, in this stunning restaurant, to come back to an old messy flat and help you prove a point?” John sighed.

“If you would John.”

“Sherlo…”

“Please.”

John bit his lip, not quite believing the words that followed.  
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

An amused huff followed by a “Thank you.” And the line went dead.

As he pressed to end the call a sudden wave of nausea overpowered him. It wasn’t because he now had to go and tell this beautiful woman he was cutting their date short and it definitely wasn’t anything to do with the meal.

It was because he’d rather spend the night helping his friend, making him feel good about himself, succeed in his work, watching and listening to his mind weave its way through complicated and intricate details that appeared so clearly to him but not so to John.   
The very idea of that, the feelings it brought forward were raw and unexamined but not at all alien to him.

Emma’s face flashed before his eyes and suddenly she didn’t seem half as interesting as she had been earlier that night.  
It bothered him a lot less than it really should.

“Fuck me.” He exclaimed to no one in particular with a wry smile.

Maybe he really was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit longer than the others, hope you still enjoy.


	10. From Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas chapter in the middle of February? Yes. Oh well. Enjoy.

Outside, the sky and the streets had all muddied into one continuous pool of grey-black. The rain was teeming down and soaking anyone unfortunate enough to pop out for more than a few seconds.   
However, one particular window from a second floor flat, shone dimly through the gloom and hinted at the warmth and vibrancy within. The glittering fairy lights and reflections of the roaring flames of the fireplace, danced psychedelically through the drenched glass panes. 

Inside was as warm and merry as outside was dire and cold. The lights were strung around the fireplace and mirror. A large but not overbearing tree that stood in one corner of the room had been decorated with a meticulously neat hand. Though the wrapping paper had been cleared away, presents still lay crowded and piled messily around various corners and surfaces of the flat and a box of half eaten mince pies lay open on the coffee table.

Christmas at Baker Street as usual.

Lestrade was just finishing off the last of the whiskey, which Molly and Mrs Hudson had tried to dissuade him from doing, when Sherlock approached his violin and swung it under his chin.  
Molly grinned and Mrs Hudson sat down in John’s chair smiling. 

‘Go on then Sherlock, play us a classic.’ Lestrade half slurred from the couch.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth at the obvious admiration and he took up his bow, falling straight into a melodious rendition of ‘Silent Night.’

John heard the wavering notes from the kitchen, where he was currently doing his best to tidy up a little. He smiled warmly, closing his eyes briefly to fully engage himself with the music. He didn’t need to turn around to know the look on his friend’s face. That relaxed, poised expression he wore whenever he played, as if he’d somehow transported himself somewhere else entirely.

He laughed a little remembering when he and Sherlock first met, he had warned him about his penchant for playing. John thought it was ironic now as not only did it not annoy him in the least, he loved it. 

Loved what it did to his friend, how pleasant and at ease he looked playing it. Loved hearing the sounds that he drew from it, the beautiful quavering notes and the sharp upward streams that seemed to hold Sherlock’s emotions within their being. 

He loved it even more so when he played alone, just himself and John in the flat.   
He would play melodies John had never heard, composed at home and it felt like Sherlock was sharing a secret with him, letting him hear the sounds he made inside, that no one else got the pleasure to hear.   
It was all very touching, though he would never admit it.

He turned now to see his friend reaching the end of the piece, his face one of pure bliss and concentration. A soft heat rang like a bell within him, outwards through his chest and arms.

As Sherlock lowered his bow he caught John’s gaze and both immediately directed their attention elsewhere. Molly and Mrs Hudson clapped gently, while Lestrade tapped the arm of the couch in appreciation.

“Such a wasted talent you are Sherlock, really.” Mrs Hudson piped up. “That was beautiful.”

Molly was blushing up to her ears, “It was really lovely.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but as he did so was interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Everyone turned to see John stood in the kitchen doorway, a long box in his hand. 

“Sorry Molly, I just thought I better give this to Sherlock before I forget.”

He marched over and handed the box to Sherlock’s free hand.

“This is from me.” 

Sherlock looked it over briefly, his eyes keen, clearly trying to decipher what was inside. Of course he already knew but he appreciated it nonetheless. Setting the violin down into its case, he peeled open the paper to reveal a velvet oblong case.  
The hinge creaked as he opened the lid and inside was a set of various miniature eyeglasses, tweezers, blades, scrapers, chisels and other various items intended for intricate work.

Sherlock smiled widely. Exactly the sort of thing he’d expected from John. Practical, but meaningful, he knew what was important to him.

‘Thank you John.’ he said with so genuine a smile that it turned Molly scarlet and startled his flatmate.

‘Y-Yes. Well. I thought it would be useful, so. Good.’   
John turned his back on the front room and made his way back into the kitchen to hide the frankly embarrassing grin that he was wearing. 

A kind but urgently spoken, ‘John.’ stopped him dead.


	11. For Me

John was suddenly aware of a hand on his shoulder, ‘Wait there.’

Sherlock briskly moved into his own bedroom and pushed the door to.

John shuffled awkwardly on the spot, pretending to not notice the quiet tension in the room.

After a few moments Sherlock glided back into the room holding a book sized box, wrapped carefully in sleek, black paper. Handing it to John, the shorter man stared, mouth slightly agape at the offering.  
“This a present? This is for me?”

Sherlock’s eyes looked like they’d roll right back into his skull, ‘Yeees…’

‘You got me a present?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘You never buy presents.’ John spoke under his breath so the others couldn’t hear. He didn’t really want the group to all find out at once that he’d been the one who bought all their presents, even the ones signed by the detective himself.

A shrug, a smirk and a shortly worded, ‘People change.’ was the only response.

Giving up his inquiries, John shook his head, a small smile creeping across his face and ripped off the wrapping.  
Inside was a small gift box, containing a silk tie, two diamond shaped cufflinks and a bottle of John’s favourite aftershave.

He laughed softly, unable to contain his delight at the gift, ‘How did you know which aftershave?’

Sherlock was stuck for words for a mere moment, looking ever so slightly awkward until he replied, ‘Nothing remarkable, I’ve seen you use it before.’

At this time, Lestrade looked up at Sherlock, with a sardonic twinkle in his eyes.  
Sherlock glowered down at him until he looked away. 

He knew the D.I. would figure it out sooner or later, why he’d crinkled his nose in recognition whilst investigating a recently deceased teacher’s apparently accidental death. Why he’d suddenly felt the urge to call John down to the scene and why he’d shown such an interest in the brand of the man’s aftershave, when at the end of the case, it didn’t turn up in any of the evidence.

But he didn’t think this was a decent or appropriate time for John to know that. Luckily for him, Lestrade had heeded his warning glare.

John just kept smiling, unable to shift his expression into something more neutral and instead embraced the joy at being the one person Sherlock had deemed worthy enough to bestow gifts upon.  
He lay a hand around his friends shoulders and patted his back twice, ‘Thank you Sherlock. I mean that.’

Sherlock watched him dazedly, very much the same way he had the first day they met and John had complimented his skills without purpose or malice.  
They remained unmoving for a while, the ex-army doctor smiling up at his mad friend, both their expressions conveying rare and genuine emotions, seemingly unaware of the company they were currently keeping.

All this was shattered by a long drawn out, slightly drunken exclamation from Sherlock’s armchair.

_“Oh for God’s sake, just kiss him Sherlock!”_

Molly was on her feet immediately, leaning down over Greg and shushing him, her cheeks crimson,  
‘That’s enough Inspector, I think you’d better get on home.’

Mrs Hudson’s gaze moved from her lodgers, to Lestrade and back again, her lips in a thin line.

Lestrade continued to mumble against Molly’s coaxing, ‘Whaaaaat? Well why the hell not, look at him. Look at him, you can see he’s waiting for it.’

‘Please Mr. Lestrade, you’re making them uncomfortable!”

While poor Molly struggled to hide her embarrassment and keep the increasingly drunk policeman under control, she couldn’t see behind her the mortified, flushed face of their blonde host.  
John was pointedly ignoring everyone and looking down at his gift, holding back the urge to throw Lestrade out onto the street. 

Molly said, uncomfortable, but even that didn’t stretch to it. There had been something a little odd between them for a while now, John wasn’t sure for how long. It was -

“Merry Christmas, John Watson.” Sherlock spoke suddenly in a way that called back to John from a distant memory.  
Before he realised what was happening Sherlock had leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. 

“Why is it always Inspector, or Lestrade ? Why can’t you jus’ call me Greg, eh Mol…” Greg’s tirade slipped away as all eyes turned to that corner of the living room.

John stood, eyes wide, unsure how to proceed. Sherlock was leaning back on his heels, hands in pockets. It was clear he was gaging John’s reaction, looking for a sign.  
In that moment, John reacted in true Brit fashion by clearing his throat, voicing a far too chirpy ‘Thank you.’ and asking if anyone else would like a cup of tea.


End file.
